


Of Thieves and Beggars

by Magi_Silverwolf



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Dursley Family, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bigger Magical World & Related Societal Changes, Canon-Typical Xenophobia, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Gen, Intelligent Harry, Magical Nobility, Magical Traditions, Magically Powerful Harry, Manipulative Dumbledore, Non-Consensual Potions Use, Plotting & Manipulation, Possibly Pre-Slash, Quasi-Sentient Magic, Rationalizing the Irrational, Secondary Relationships - Freeform, Slight deviations from secondary canon sources, Suspicious Behavior, Systematic Abuse, Threats of Violence, Touch-Starved, canon-typical bigotry, possessive thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-12 18:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9084241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magi_Silverwolf/pseuds/Magi_Silverwolf
Summary: The Boy-Who-Lived is a prize to be won. The Chosen One is a weapon to wielded. In one version, Harry Potter never figured out those things--and believed everything that he was told about the world he was entering. He never realized the power he held and no one realized his private challenges.
A chance meeting with someone who notices changes everything.





	1. In Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.  
> Warning: This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers.  
> Author’s Note: This story came to me while working on other projects. Those projects grow out of many discussions on various, um, problematic aspects of the HPverse. Many of those aspects are things which I have noticed that a lot of people either miss, due to the fact they are not explicitly stated in canon, only implied. If people do notice them, many hand-wave approval for them, typically because of the influence of a specific character involved in the decision-making process for the aspect. This story will not be giving that approval.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The years have not been kind since Harry Potter was left on a doorstep in November. They have not been joyfully bright. In fact, one could say that they had been spent in darkness.

-= LP =-

Of Thieves and Beggars

Part 01: In Darkness

-= LP =-

“Childhood should be carefree, playing in the sun; not living a nightmare in the darkness of the soul.”

― Dave Pelzer, _A Child Called "It"_

-= LP =-

Harry Potter was a very unusual boy, as his relatives knew very well. Since the morning that Petunia Dursley had found the boy on her doorstep with only a thin blanket and a letter, odd things would happen around the Dursley residence. To most people, these odd occurrences defied explanation, but Petunia and Vernon Dursley knew what made them happen. Petunia had a sister who was a witch. This witch married a wizard and together they had Harry, who obviously had the same ability to use magic as his parents and only a child’s control over it.

Petunia knew that she was not a kind aunt, but the odd things scared her. Lily had never done nearly as much accidental magic as a child, whereas Harry seemed prone to do them almost every day. In desperation, she began to pile on chores to the boy as soon as he could take direction, which was just as freakishly early as he was a freak. If the boy was exhausted, he wouldn’t have the energy to cause trouble. To a certain extent, it worked and the occurrences slowed down. Harry did his growing list of chores without complaint, even when Petunia caught Dudley deliberately undoing his hard work. This worked up until the boys had to start school, which took them away from her care for much of the day. Immediately, the incidents started again.

In desperation, she began to carefully ration out the boy’s meals. He would watch with his unnaturally dark green eyes as the rest of the family ate full servings while he had half, if that much, but he didn’t complain. She was careful with what she sent to school with the boy—it would not do for people to begin to talk more than Petunia knew they already did. When questioned about the simple lunch consisting of a sandwich made of three thin slices of cheese between two slices of white bread and an apple alongside a thermos of overly-steeped tea, she would always explain about how picky the boy was when it came to food. The boy did nothing to contradict her lie. It was hard to watch him stay the scrawny child while her Duddikins grew in size, but Petunia always reassured herself that it was better this way. It was not as if Dudley was overweight—oh, no, her beloved boy was merely big-boned and muscular like his father. If the boy was the tiniest in his year, it _must_ be due to his inheritance of Lily’s slight build and _not_ anything that Petunia was doing. Besides, even if it was, controlling the boy’s food made the _incidents_ all but disappear, so it was definitely for the greater good that she continue on exactly as she had been.

The rules were another thing entirely. The Evanses had raised both their daughters with the firm belief that power was never to be taken lightly. It must be controlled. Unlike her parents who had idolized Lily for having power and let her run wild practicing it, especially after _that boy_ came into their lives, Petunia would see that Harry would understand that because he was different from decent folk like her Dudley, he had to follow a different set of rules. It was perfectly logical that these rules be harsher and less lenient. After all, the danger if the boy abused his power was far greater than if Dudley threw his weight around the playground. There was also the little fact that the boy, being what he was in defiance of natural laws, was already starting out in the moral deficit. He simply had more to make up for than her perfect son. The boy _must_ be limited for the safety of those around him. Otherwise, who knew what horrors he would unleash upon them?

And what was the point of having rules if they weren’t enforced? So of course the boy was punished whenever he broke the rules. It didn’t matter if the punishments would seem to be overly harsh to most people. Those who would dissent clearly did not understand what she had to deal with concerning the boy. No, Harry needed his punishments to be harsher than anything she would dare inflict upon her own child. If the punishments weren’t that harsh, then the lesson would not linger long enough to change his behavior.

Petunia Dursley took very deliberate care in raising her nephew. She made conscious choices and justified it all with what she viewed as unassailable logic. A few things escaped her notice, such as just how ingrained her habit of never referring to the boy by name was or how stingy she was when it came to affection and praise for any of the boy’s childhood achievements. It never occurred to her that her _perfect_ son would misinterpret her actions as cruelty and abuse being acceptable. It also never occurred to her to limit Dudley’s actions and interactions at all as he was a normal child without any of the freakishness of her sister’s son.

After all, she was quite proud to say that she was perfectly normal, thank you very much.

 -= LP =- 

Albus Dumbledore was not a man whose motives were questionable, no matter what _some_ people would say. Being raised in Mould-on-the-Wold had shown him the true character of muggles. At the same time, due to his father’s work on the Wizengamot—and later, his own work—Albus understood the character of his fellow wizards. People in general are always the same; they are spitefully cruel and arrogantly blind to those around them. As a wizard with both exceptionally high intelligence and great power, it was his obligation to his fellow Man to guide and protect them, even from themselves. As such, everything he did was for the Greater Good.

There were things he had done in service to that sacred duty of which he was not proud. The wizarding world had to be protected from itself, and sometimes that meant sacrificing a few for the betterment of the whole. Of course he regretted their loss and the part he played in their deaths. He was not a monster, after all. But those deaths were necessary for the betterment of all—it was for the Greater Good, even if some people could not see that.

Albus knew a great many things whose obscurity had long since become one of his top priorities. There were things which could make things _difficult_ if it remained common knowledge. One such topic was Obscurials, which were created when a magical child forcefully rejected their magic, typically because of abuse from non-magical guardians. If people knew the risks—and more importantly, how common an occurrence Obscurials actually were—then there would be demands to remove magical children from their muggle homes as a matter of course. Dumbledore had plans which required muggle-raised magicals. He needed a certain number of willing followers, and magically-raised wizards and witches were far more difficult to fool, due to growing up within the magical community which meant that Albus couldn’t always control their exposure to information.

It was unfortunate that he also had to suppress information on Wilding. If wizards understood that Magic chose to create the muggleborns, the fear-based rhetoric against them could be more easily countered. However, the subject also increased the discussion of cultivating familial talents and how the more erratic magic of muggleborns was disruptive to this process. Why, the very thought excluded the witches and wizards who were first in their families. It also kept alive the idea of the magic-born, which was problematic for Albus’ continued guidance of the wizarding world.

Magic-born were allegedly chosen by Magic to be leaders and innovators. It was certainly true that a magic-born had a more innate understanding of how magic worked, but it seemed that every single one of them wanted to promote the practice of unquestionably Dark magic. They would lecture about how magic was not Light or Dark—it just _was_ and it was the intent of the caster which determined its purpose. They also promoted those horribly outdated magical traditions such as the testing of magical compatibility before marriage—or even _worse_ , the practice of magical bonding instead of marriage. They talked about magical vows and suggested making a protectorate vow mandatory for anyone holding a public office. It was like they couldn’t see how restricting that could be upon the person holding the office. Magic may not understand what was needed to protect the Greater Good. It was evident in her chosen champions. Clearly, Albus had to do something to protect Magic from herself.

It was disappointing to discover that not only had the Potter child _not_ succeeded in truly ridding the world of the most troublesome magic-born Albus had ever had to deal with (even after tricking the brat into destroying his connection to Magic, the man kept on being a thorn), but it turned out that the boy was also a magic-born. It was beyond bothersome, really, but it did give Albus a potential chance to do a little cultivation of his own. While Tom Riddle hadn’t been particularly interested in following Albus’ advice, perhaps Harry could be taught to restrict his desire to question instructions. Harry certainly could not be allowed to be raised by his godfather; Sirius Black may have rejected much of his heritage, but Albus suspected that he would still be able to recognize what Harry was. That would be disastrous as the Black heir was already acting suspicious of Albus’ lack of direct action against the Death Eaters. A magic-born raised within magical society would most likely never follow Albus’ vision. If Albus could arrange for little Harry to be raised in the muggle world, then perhaps the lad would be more malleable when he finally arrived at Hogwarts.

It would take some maneuvering. Not only did Sirius Black need to be dealt with, there was also the troublesome matter of Alice Diore y Longbottom, Harry’s godmother. While Alice was a few generations removed from her magic-born ascendant, she would still be more than able to teach a young magic-born how to control his abilities. That just wouldn’t work out well for Albus’ plans. Magic-borns were notorious about not wanting to attack each other, particularly with their stronger magical abilities. With Voldemort not truly gone, Harry still had a destiny to fulfill. Any influence which would make young Harry not follow Albus’ plan put the Greater Good at risk.

In the end, it was incredibly simple to get his way. Sirius easily handed over Harry to Hagrid once the half-giant adamantly stated that Albus had sent him. (The acquisition of Hagrid’s loyalty was one of Albus’ finer moments and still paid dividends.) The hot-headed wizard then took it upon himself to track down Pettigrew who conveniently managed to disappear in the confrontation. Albus only had to assure that Black’s guilt was beyond question for Sirius to disappear as well, into the depths of Azkaban. By the time anyone thought to question the man’s lack of trial, the Dementors would have taken care of the issue nicely. It took only a brief conversation being overheard by a young Death Eater to send a group of them after the Longbottoms, removing Alice from the possibility of being an issue. Remus Lupin was a bit trickier to stop from being an issue, the lupine mindset demanding that he watch over his pack’s youngest member. It was regrettable that Albus had to allow Umbridge’s anti-creature bill to pass, but in the end, it really did do more good than harm.

Of course, placing a magical child, let alone one as powerful as a magic-born was bound to be, in a muggle home was not without risk. For all their resilience, children were also incredibly fragile. If Petunia and her husband became too harsh, if they overstepped from the desired strict discipline to overly violent, then there was the potential of Harry becoming an Obscurial. That would be wasteful as well as problematic. Not only would Albus not get his chance to be the guiding light for a magic-born, but Obscurials tended to die messy and early deaths. Since locating Voldemort seemed impossible for the moment, Harry had to survive long enough to take care of the matter. Dying would certainly prevent that. Luckily, the Order contained more than one squib, so moving one into the Dursleys’ neighborhood to keep watch took next to no effort.

Albus could finally relax for the first time in over a decade. The Greater Good was back on track. 

-= LP =- 

There was one thing which Harry had known for all of his childhood. The Rules _must_ be obeyed. What the Rules were could change depending on the situation. The Rules for his primary school were not the same as the ones for Number Four which were slightly different while Aunt Marge was visiting and while Aunt Petunia was hosting her bridge club. Also, the Rules were not always given voice; not everyone was as nice as Aunt Petunia as to explain them. This did not change the fact that the Rules must _always_ be obeyed. Fortunately, Aunt Petunia was kind enough to have trained Harry to pick up on the Rules when they changed, and she had Dudley remind Harry of them when they were at school. Thankfully, Dudley was normal and understood the Rules better than Harry who was a freak like his no-good parents.

Harry didn’t always like the Rules. They kept him and everyone around him safe from his freakishness, but Harry hated that the Rules had to exist in the first place. Because of his freakishness, the Rules were harsher on him than they would be for normal children. This was why Harry was not allowed to play like Dudley was and why he had harder chores than the other children, especially his cousin. The Rules also meant that Harry was not allowed to do his homework like Dudley could, even if he could very easily understand all the topics without the practice.

Infractions of the Rules had consequences. Harry hated these most of all. He didn’t mind the lashings from Uncle Vernon’s belt or when Aunt Petunia took the wooden spoon to whatever part of him she could reach. The consequence that Harry hated the most was being locked in his cupboard. When he was locked into his cupboard, the Dursleys completely ignored him except for the two times a day Aunt Petunia would let him out to use the toilet. The hunger was not so bad—Harry was used to his stomach being achingly empty—but he would get so thirsty that it felt like he was becoming a living desert.

The physical discomfort was nothing compared to how lonely and invisible he felt while locked away out of sight. It felt like he was no more real than a ghost, like he could just stop existing and no one would even notice, not even him. Sometimes that feeling haunted him even when he was not in the cupboard. When Dudley formed a sort-of gang with some other boys from around the block, Harry found a sure-fire way of making that feeling disappear. If Harry made his cousin mad, then he and his gang would initiate what they called “Harry Hunting”. They would tell Harry to run and then chase him. When they caught Harry, they would beat him up. A beating from the boys made him feel so much more alive than a lashing or facing the Spoon did, despite usually ending up hurting more and for longer.

The Letters changed things. Harry was as certain of that as he was that the Rules had to be obeyed. His first inkling that things were different was when Vernon visited his cupboard the night the first one arrived. Harry wouldn’t have even noticed the letter’s arrival except for the fact that he had been the one to fetch that day’s mail when Dudley had refused. Apparently, his aunt and uncle were concerned because the letter had a very specific address listed for Harry. So for safety, Harry would be staying in Dudley’s second bedroom for the foreseeable future. The generous space unnerved Harry who was far more used to his cozy cupboard, even if Uncle Vernon _was_ right in saying that Harry was getting too big for it now that his head could touch the sloped ceiling whenever he stood completely straight. There was just too much space and the bed was far softer than the thin cot mattress he had slept on in his cupboard. It was also brightly lit by the streetlamps shining through the curtainless window. The light made the ash tree in the garden cast strange shadows on the walls. More than anything, Harry wished to be back in his safe hideaway under the stairs, letter-writing stalkers and all.

The Letters did not stop with that first one, even without a reply. They just kept coming, in greater number and in stranger ways each day. Harry was quickly becoming just as unnerved as his aunt and uncle. He was used to strange things happening around him, but all those times had been something that happened quickly and was immediately over like his teacher’s wig turning blue or popping onto the roof instead of jumping behind the dumpster like he had planned when running from Dudley’s gang. Harry knew that like those things being his fault, no matter conscious intent, the Letters must be as well. They were all _incidents_ without good explanations. _Incidents_ were always _infractions_ which meant that eventually, Harry would be punished. The worse the infraction, the worse the punishment would be, and with every day the Letters coming in stranger ways, Harry knew that his punishment was just getting worse. But they showed no sign of stopping and Harry couldn’t figure out how to _make_ them stop. 

When Uncle Vernon decided to attempt to outrun the Letters, Harry bore it stoically. While Dudley lamented missing meals and his shows, Harry fretted about falling behind in his chores. He knew that the longer the garden was left unattended, the longer it would take to bring it back to pristine perfection, and the longer that took, the longer it would be before he could have his full share of meals. The garden was just one of his chores—just because there was no one in the house, it did not mean that the dust wouldn’t matter. Oh! And Sunday was bathroom day, and Uncle Vernon hadn’t given Harry time to do that chore before piling everyone into the car. Come to think of it, breakfast hadn’t been cleared even. What state would the house be in when Harry finally got to do his chores? Uncle Vernon would take into consideration that _he_ had been the one to cause Harry to not be able to get things done, right? Harry certainly hoped so, but felt that it was very unlikely. After all, they wouldn’t be on this random car trip if the Letters addressed to Harry hadn’t started coming.

It was almost a relief when the gamekeeper interrupted their sleep the night they arrived at the Hut on the Rock. While Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had retreated to the only bedroom and Dudley had curled up on the saggy couch, Harry had set about cleaning the main room as well as he was able without the tools and supplies he had at home. He couldn’t make this little place presentable, but maybe he could earn a bit of leniency if he could make the place a bit more hospitable. While working, Harry found a small wood stack tucked into what might have been a pantry once. He was gathering the split logs when the banging at the door started.

Listening to Hagrid was hard. It was not just because of the ongoing tension between the giant-like man and Uncle Vernon, either. The man had a weird way of swallowing parts of his words and speaking in only phrases. There was a lot that Harry didn’t understand, but he knew the Rules. The most consistent rule was to _not ask questions_. Harry couldn’t afford to disobey that rule, not with the Letters Incident quickly spiraling into something far worse than a mere Incident. When Hagrid insisted Harry leave with him the next morning, Harry could only cast a worried glance at the closed bedroom door which hid the Dursleys from view. This was a bad situation and it was quickly becoming _worse_.

It always did when the Rules shifted and Harry was left on his own.

 

-= LP =-

_To Be Continued in Part 02_

-= LP =-


	2. Cutting the Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Occasionally, a change in direction is just a tiny shift. Other times, it is like the scattering of beads upon the snapping of their binding strings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning(s): There is a minor direct quotation taken from Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Due to what the quotation is, there are no markings denoting its status. Additionally, there is a reference to a past homosexual relationship. Since one of the parties is dead and there are onscreen actions from their relationship, I am not marking this story as “slash”.

-= LP =-

Of Thieves and Beggars

Part 02: Cutting the Strand

-= LP =-

“Cries for help are frequently inaudible.” –Tom Robbins, _Even Cowgirls Get the Blues_

-= LP =-

 

Severus Snape was not, strictly speaking, a man who trusted kindness. He had learned that it was often a lie meant to manipulate the recipient at a very young age. Tobias Snape had used kindness to buy Eileen’s forgiveness after every one of his rages. Likewise, Eileen had used it to forestall those same rages. If it hadn’t been for the Evanses, Severus would never have understood that just because that is how kindness was used in 222 Spinner’s End, it did not mean that it was the only way it could ever be used. While Tobias and Eileen had been locked in their seemingly endless dance of blinding love and crippling hate, Harold and Marigold Evans had demonstrated only compassion and strength. Their youngest had taken those traits to heart while the oldest had clearly misunderstood somewhere along the line. Severus had spent the last decade half-hoping that it had been _him_ who misunderstood Petunia Evans’ character rather than her misunderstanding her parents’ lessons, but in the end, that was neither here nor there. What was important was that in the end, _everyone_ who was kind to him had some kind of heel turn eventually—with the only exceptions being two of the most insufferable women he had the doubtable good fortune to have met. Surprisingly to _some_ people who claimed to know him, neither of them were Lily Elizabeth Potter _nee_ Evans.

 

Oh, no, that dubious honor belonged to Andromeda and Narcissa Black. While his time at Hogwarts had overlapped both of the sisters’ (in different directions), they had only come into his life after he had already completely destroyed it. Much of Severus’ time at the wizarding school had been spent locked in battle, both literally and figuratively, with a group of Gryffindors known as the Marauders. The Marauders, particularly their ringleaders James Potter and Sirius Black, were little more than incorrigible rulebreakers and their conflict would never have escalated beyond boyhood scraps if it weren’t for James Potter being instantly taken with Severus’ childhood friend and neighbor Lily Evans. The more the Potter Heir pursued her, the more annoyed Lily had become. By the end of their first year, what had started as a combination of House rivalry and personality conflict had grown into an all-out feud. The next year saw Sirius’ younger brother Regulus getting involved, on Severus’ side of the fight. Everything just snowballed from that point—growing into murder attempts and words spat in bitter anger. He had chased Lily into James’ arms before fleeing into those of _Lord_ Voldemort, followed loyally by Regulus.

 

A heart was never meant to be broken as many times as Severus’ had been. First he had lost his Angel before regaining their friendship, only to end up being the one to present her to her intended husband because her spiteful shrew of a sister had abandoned her at the last moment. Turning to Regulus for comfort had been wonderfully healing. They had each found in each other a solace that they had never expected to find. It had been a dangerous time, and they had been balanced on the dangerous edge of it all—even without the tortured silences borne of keeping secrets. Yes, Severus had hidden that he was giving information to Dumbledore on their activities for the Dark Lord, but Regulus had also been keeping secrets. Then he had just...disappeared. Regulus had been there one day, loving and sweet despite the words hanging unspoken between them, and then he had been gone, missing, _unfindable_.

 

Those first months had been difficult. Lily was speaking to him again, but she had been in hiding along with the toe-rag and the sprog, so any meetings had to be carefully planned. That became an even greater issue when the Dark Lord had announced his intention to focus his attention on the Potters over other potential fulfillers of the prophecy which _Severus_ had brought him over a year before Regulus’ death. That is when they had gone under the Fidelius.

 

In her place, the younger Blacks had taken to checking up on him at random intervals, even the mutt. _Sirius_ had come to apologize. _Sirius_ had spoken— _lied_ —about regretting the Prank, which had almost killed him and condemned the wolf to death. Andromeda distracted him with talk of laws and Narcissa had shared secrets of potions geared towards healing the body and soul, but _Sirius_ had spoken of blood magic and abjurations and promised in _Regulus’_ name that the past was in the past and now they should work towards the future. By the gods, Severus had bought it all, every poisoned word. It made sense that Sirius would be the Potters’ Secret Keeper (and hadn’t it been Sirius who had brought him to the cottage that night, when Lily had extracted her promise) because really who else could it have been? Werewolves and abjurations did not mix well and the less said about Peter, the better. Of _course,_ it had been Sirius. How long had he been secretly meeting with the Dark Lord before that Halloween? A day? An hour? Or had it been the entire nine months he had been visiting Severus, as if Severus was some kind of Victorian widow? Was it just one final prank? A spark of the Black Madness disguising a kindness as one last manipulation?

 

Severus was startled from his reflections by an unexpected knock on his door. The jerking spasm made him drop the entire vial of powdered sootwing into his cauldron instead of just lightly dusting the top of the potion. He was forced to quickly vanish the ruined potion before it exploded and took his kitchen with it. The tiny two-story house may have been a tad worn-down and a huge reminder of his unpleasant childhood, but it _was_ the house in which he was raised. He would rather it not burn to the ground. With that joyful thought, he shrugged off his apron before moving towards the front of the house to answer the blasted door.

 

“What do you want?” he demanded as he swung open the door. In the next moment, he groaned. Of _course_ it would be her. The woman didn’t bother commenting on his less-than-cordial greeting as she pushed her way into his home, casserole dish first. He continued to grumble as he followed her down the hallway to his kitchen. She moved as if she had every right to invade his home without asking or offering an explanation. Already, he could feel his wards sparkling as they adapted to the presence of another magical being, especially one whose magic was so forceful as to bear the burden of such a name as _Andromeda_. Ruler of men, indeed. “Sure. Come right in; make yourself at home. Infernal woman.”

 

“Tea sounds great, thank you,” she replied as she placed her burden on the table. Her dark eyes swept the room, and he could _hear_ her making a list of things she thought that he needed. Still grumbling to himself, Severus started the kettle heating for tea before moving to prepare the pot. It was always better to not argue with a Black, even one who had decided to throw away their family’s principles for such a little thing as _love_. What did that foolish concept ever net anyone? It was a useless bit of sentiment—frivolous insanity! Then again, Blacks were to a one as mad as hatters. Thankfully, Andromeda Tonks nee Black seemed to be less inclined towards homicidal rage than the rest of them. Oh, no— _she_ just felt the ceaseless need to foist food upon him. At least she hadn’t brought the brat this time…speaking of—

 

“Where is the miscreant? Off saving kneazles?”

 

“Only you, Severus, could make _kindness_ sound like stupidity,” Andromeda remarked with a sniff. “But no, Nymphadora is not ‘saving kneazles’ as you put it. She _has_ been accepted to the Auror program, surprisingly enough. She starts next week.”

 

“That is hardly any different from saving kneazles,” he remarked as he poured the heated water into the waiting pot. After replacing the lid, he dropped a dish towel onto the whole ensemble. He felt the witch coming closer, her magic moving around his as if it was an embrace. As health checks went, it was as subtle as a tank. Offended on principle, Severus yanked his magic tight inside himself, coiling it within and refusing to let it loose as it wanted. It had already betrayed him too many times in his life. Severus flinched when she laid a hand between his shoulder blades.

 

“Severus, I wanted to thank you.”

 

“Thank me? You mistake me for someone who did something important,” he snapped as he moved carefully away from her. Damn all Blacks for being too smart to be tolerated, even the Ravenclaw ones. The Gryffindor ones were clear exceptions to this rule, as the mutt proved. If he served the tea in mugs, maybe it would offend the infernal woman enough that she would leave him be instead of being bothersome.

 

“Oh, yes, you are _so_ insignificant! You contribute so little! Gods, Severus, you are a fool,” Andromeda returned with equal fire. She did not follow him across the little kitchen, but he could feel how her magic expanded to fill the space. Her control was far too good for that to be anything except deliberate. It irritated him with its reminder of another woman who had always scolded him for thinking poorly of himself. He made sure to pull down the mustard-yellow mug for her use. “Severus Tobias Snape, you know that without your tutoring, Nymphadora would never have gotten her Potions N.E.W.T. let alone achieve such a high grade on it. Regardless of _that man’s_ directives, you still manage to have more students who go on to apprenticeships than the last three Potions professors combined and better quality ones at that. You need to stop this self-deprecation. It has moved far beyond the point of doing any good and is quickly becoming worrisome. If Regulus were here—“

 

“That’s rather the point, isn’t it?” Severus interrupted, spinning to face her. He had no evidence of the other man’s fate; he only knew that Regulus had been having second thoughts about serving the Dark Lord and one day was just…gone. He had been there and then he hadn’t been. Severus _knew_ that Regulus’ death—because what else could it be? Regulus would _never_ have just left—had to be due to some misstep of his own, just as Lily’s had been. While his wand had not been the one to cast the spell, it was still his fault that both his loves had died. It had to be—he was the only thing they had in common with each other.

 

“Regulus would not want—“

 

“Don’t you _dare_ tell me what he would want!”

 

“Severus—“

 

“No, Andromeda,” he interrupted. This had gone on too long already. He had loved them, yes, and when Sirius had taken to checking on him after Regulus had been confirmed as missing, it had been comforting, despite their previous animosity and despite how it deepened the pain when the man had betrayed the Potters within a matter of months. Andromeda’s insistent presence had also helped many times over the years and though he would never admit it aloud, even Nymphadora had been a comfort over the years. Even Narcissa had taken to insisting Severus visit the Malfoy Manor on a regular basis, even going so far as to Name Severus as a godfather to her only son. Severus may have been ignorant of their actions’ significance once, but he had long since figured it out. They were treating him as if he was a widow, even though Severus had no idea how they could even know and he dare not ask. However, it needed to stop _now_. It had been a decade. Severus could no longer excuse this emotional dependence upon the remaining Blacks. “I know that you _think_ you know how I feel and what I need to hear, but this needs to stop. I can’t—I _can’t_ keep doing this to you or Narcissa. It’s not right.”

 

“If this is about what Walburga said, you have to understand that the woman was out of her gourd even before the Madness took hold. You _must_ know that no one blames you for Regulus’ disappearance.”

 

“Oh, well, then, it’s all fine and dandy. Let’s hold hands and sing songs as we skip through the streets!”

 

“You are absolutely insufferable!” The woman looked as if she was about to forgo hexing him to simply throttle him. It must have been the influence of her husband because Severus highly doubted that Cygnus Black would have approved of any of his daughters taking up muggle fighting styles. Then again, the man had hardly been approving of his oldest daughter running away to be with a muggleborn wizard, medical magic prodigy or not. If the decision concerning Andromeda’s continued acceptance as a Black had been up to either Walburga or Cygnus, she would have been cast out as soon as the bond had been sealed. Arcturus Black, and particularly his lady-wife, had different interpretations of the House by-laws. And lucky him, who got to benefit from Andromeda’s continued inclusion in the family, which necessitated that all Blacks be cared for, even those who marry into the family. That was, of course, the kicker in his case. For all that he was being treated as one, Severus had _never_ — “Severus, how much longer must you remain under this man’s thumb? Surely you’ve paid off whatever debt he feels you owe him for his intercession with the Wizengamot?”

 

“What makes you think that the debt is to _him_?” He refused to look at the woman as he let the precision of preparing tea fill his focus. Just a splash of milk into the bottom of the mug and stirred in the half spoonful of sugar; then pour the tea with a widdershin flourish. Stir the mixture three times one way and a quarter turn the other, once, twice, then finally trice. When he finally held out the mug, Andromeda ducked her head to catch his gaze. With the same careful effort he had focused on the tea, Severus kept his thoughts locked away from his face.

 

“Oh, _Severus_ ,” Andromeda whispered, accepting the mug. “How long do you have to repay debts which don’t exist?” Even if she had not then noticed what she held, Severus would not have answered. “Oh, you _bastard_. I know you have decent china somewhere in this tinderbox. This is childish. Honestly—where did you even get such a horribly colored mug?”

 

The moment passed, as Severus knew that it would, as he knew it must. After all, kindness was not really something which could be trusted. That was an old lesson. He had learned it well.

 

-= LP =-

 

Marcus Flint twisted on his heels as he felt the change in the magical currents of Diagon Alley. Having grown up in the Alleys (as the residents called the six branching streets which made up the magical shopping district of London), even a slight disturbance such as this tiny ripple perked his interest. Too many times, it was sensitives like his family which gave the denizens of the Alleys just the warning they needed to be spared a tragedy. Marcus could taste the wild stone flavor which covered the ripple, _almost_ hiding it completely from notice. The combination had to be deliberate—it would have been far simpler to spell-lock the ripple-maker’s aura for a period of time than to try to mask it with another aura; whoever orchestrated it must want the rippler to be noticed, but _not_ by everyone. The ploy would have worked on him as well if he had been in the shop because the stone flavor would have been enough to completely mask the ripple when combined with all the eddies from the goods which filled _Flint’s Baubles_ and the distance from the main drag. But the Flints were well known for their frugal natures and the deals of Boy-Who-Lived Day were perfect for restocking on necessary supplies.

 

Marcus scanned the entrances to the shopping district. He didn’t know what he was looking for exactly, but he had an idea. Marcus nodded to himself when he spotted the hulking form of the Hogwarts groundskeeper near the Cauldron Gate Wall. The eight-and-a-quarter foot height of the man put him head-and-shoulders above the majority of wizards and being half-giant, his magic would have the taste of untamed mountains. Hagrid also had someone significantly smaller with him, though the crowds hid the tiny form from Marcus’ sight. It couldn’t be Flitwick—though Marcus couldn’t think of anyone else who would be so small _and_ in the company of the Keeper of the Keys. Flitwick would not have stood for Hagrid to have controlled his movements in such a way. The half-goblin was a world-renowned duelist and a restraining hand would have run against the grain for him, friend or not.

 

The crowd finally parted enough for Marcus to see the little ripple-maker. The boy was small, almost delicate, despite showing signs of not being a stranger to hard work. He had an almost gold hue to his skin, a probably hard-earned tan when any sort of tan was rare among wizards in the Isles. The boy’s hair was a riot of inky curls on top of his head which were long enough to cover his forehead completely, but around his ears and nape, the curls had been hacked off, leaving wispy spikes which stuck out in random directions. He was definitely muggle-raised, in one fashion or another, because his clothing was that same machine-made shit that all but the wealthiest of muggles wore, despite it being at least three sizes too large for the boy’s petite frame by muggle fashion. Marcus barely had time to note the edge of a half-healed bruise on the boy’s exposed collarbone before the object of his examination turned to look at him in return. The almond-shaped eyes were the exact shade of apple jade that had been ordered for a recent commission from the Headmaster. Those eyes were also far older than any child should have had. The boy’s expression had a tight, pinched look that spoke of stomach-souring fear and confusion. Marcus was moving before he was completely aware of what he was going to do.

 

“Hey, Hagrid,” Marcus greeted as the pair approached his spot. The half-giant guiltily startled, as if he hadn’t been expecting anyone to greet him in the middle of the Alleys. Marcus just grinned as if he hadn’t noticed. “I wasn’t expecting to see you until closer to First Harvest. Da has plans to attend the celebration in Hogsmeade. The trip out to Romania got canceled—the Horntail finally flew. So what brings you here on this day of all days?”

 

“Hogwarts business,” Hagrid announced with a puffing up of his already considerable chest. The gamekeeper’s hand flexed on the boy’s shoulder as if in reassurance. Despite that shoulder being the opposite one from that glimpsed bruise, the boy had a flash of pain cross his face even as he held his stoic silence. A boy should not be so accepting of pain, particularly one that was likely of age to start Hogwarts. What more, the boy’s magic should not be causing the ripple effect which had drawn Marcus’ attention as his aura was drawn tightly around him. It was almost as if the ambient magic was reacting to the boy’s mere presence. Marcus spared Hagrid a glance for consideration. This was a tricky dragon, but Flints were nothing if not crafty. There was a reason they most always ended up in Slytherin, after all.

 

“Oh, they’ve got you escorting muggleborn firsties now,” Marcus remarked. “Excellent. It’s only a matter of time ‘fore the Headmaster has you helping with the Care classes. Merryweather’s brill, no doubt, but I bet you could _liven_ up the course if given the chance.” The teen tapped one side of his rather broad nose as if he was thinking. “I know how to help my favorite gamekeeper! If we can get the lad the best deals on his supplies, the Heads are certain to see how brill you are at this. You know us Flints, Hagrid. Every knut is squeezed until it bleeds.” Without giving the half-giant a chance to put him off, Marcus bent to the firstie’s eye level and held out his hand in the muggle way. Seeing the boy pulling closer to his protector before Marcus had done any more than that, he attempted to soften his expression as if he was calling the drakelings to him at the Reserve. “I’m Marcus Flint. What’s your name?”

 

“Harry,” the boy stated after a quick assessment of their surroundings. Harry met his gaze again. Those eyes were far too old to be on a first year. There was so much about this situation that Marcus didn’t know or understand, and the self-preservation traits for which his House was lauded were warning him of treacherous waters ahead, but even that could not still the instincts which Magic Herself had bound into his core when She made him sensitive to Her flows. This boy— _Harry_ —needed to be protected and those in authority obviously couldn’t be trusted to do it if they sent _Hagrid_ to take him school shopping. Hagrid was a nice enough bloke, but he missed a lot of subtle signals in his simplicity. Those same subtle signals that Hagrid clearly missed were the same ones which had Marcus patiently waiting for the kid to reach out to him rather than closing the slight distance to finish what was quickly becoming an awkward social custom. Once again, Marcus was reminded of the baby dragons of the Reserves, wariness cloaking newly born power. Then Harry grasped his hand and for one startling moment, that power was not cloaked. Magic swept through Marcus like floodwaters bursting from a dam.

 

Marcus had been raised around magic his whole life. He was familiar with all of Her nuances, from the natural materials his extended family traveled the world to gather to the harsh beauty of purified metals and crystallized potions created by his mother’s kin. With the Flints’ traditionalist stance (one which often brought them into conflict with both sides of the conflicts of the last score of years), Marcus had been raised with the knowledge that while lineage did not necessarily hold any importance, Magic would occasionally Gift one of Her children, which could create unpredictable results. Muggleborns were a rather mild example of this process. Certain inheritances could call specific eddies of the Wilding to a family, especially if a human had mixed with another magical race somewhere in a family tree, as so many of the older wizarding families had. The older the family, the more likely it was that a specific type of magical Talent became common in the descendants, less like a Wilding and more like a cultivated trait.

 

Sometimes, a child would be born who was imbued with so much magic that it was like they were born of Magic Herself rather than mortal parents. Such children had destinies of greatness before them, but that greatness came with a price, as all things do. They had no choice but to be open to the entire universe. Any magus could build up an awareness of magic--like any sense, mage senses could be honed--but for these children who were touched by Fate, there was no filter, no way to ignore the thousands of ways magic manifested in the world. It all _screamed_ for attention. With the brush of Harry’s tiny hand against his palm, Marcus had no doubt that Harry was one of these magic-born children. Marcus was equally sure that somehow this child was not known to the Ministry as a magic-born, and had had none of the training in childhood to prepare him for entering magic-dense locations. His heart lurched at the implications, but Marcus could no more do _nothing_ than he could give up magic.

 

“It is very nice to meet you, Harry,” Marcus replied. He glanced at Hagrid when the man flexed his grip again, drawing another barely-noticeable flinch from the boy. Normally, Marcus never acted without a plan, but he knew that he had to act _now_ or it would be too late. Too late for what, he didn’t know but what Magic demanded, Magic would get or _else_. With deft motions, he undid the clasp of the bracelet on his own wrist. As soon as the crystal beads stopped touching his skin, his awareness of the Alleys’ ambient magic grew sharper, almost painfully so, but _he_ had senses nowhere near as strong as a magic-born’s _and_ his family’s training to control it. The bracelet had only been a precaution, like bringing along an umbrella when there were clouds. “I want to gift you something, little one.” Marcus lowered his voice so that it could not be heard further than Harry’s ears in the rush of the crowd, trusting Magic to do the rest needed to mask his words from unwanted listeners. “It will help.”

 

With the formal motion necessary for gifts of this type, Marcus presented the bracelet to Harry straight out from the center of his chest. Harry examined his face with those too-old eyes the color of apple jade. The gaze felt like it was looking deeper than just his expression, but Marcus did not feel the need to squirm uncomfortably. Finally, Harry held out his left arm instead of taking the gift. The overly-large shirt slipped down to reveal a bony wrist and an equally small arm that was splotched with deep bluish-purple bruises. By unspoken agreement, Marcus wrapped the strand of amethyst beads around the proffered wrist, needing to wrap it twice to prevent the bracelet from slipping off over the boy’s hand. The moment the clasp closed, Harry closed his eyes with an inaudible sigh. Marcus brushed his thumb over the line where Harry’s wrist met his palm once before letting go to roll back to standing.

 

“So, Gringotts?” He directed the question to Hagrid. The half-giant grinned and directed them onward. Careful to not draw attention to his actions, Marcus drew Harry away from Hagrid’s hold under the guise of pointing out various points of interest in Diagon Alley. Hagrid let the boy go easily as long as they stayed within arm’s reach, which was fine for Marcus. The objective was not to steal the boy away from his escort; it was to prevent Hagrid from continuing to inadvertently hurt the boy. Hagrid was a simple man—simple to please, simple to love, and simple to _fool_. Hagrid would be equally devastated to learn that he had hurt the child under his care as he would be if he ever learned the full extent of this manipulation. Marcus had his suspicions as to who was behind this little scheme, and if he was right, Hagrid would be crushed when it finally came to light.

 

That would need to be dealt with, but it would have to wait. Right now, the boy had to be protected. Harry was a magic-born without any training experiencing a magic-dense environment for what was probably the first time, and he was sent with a man who hadn’t even completed his third year of Hogwarts before getting his wand snapped. This situation should _never_ have happened, but regardless, now it had to be dealt with as someone had made sure that it did happen.

 

Marcus knew how to play the part of friendly guide, the stern but indulgent upperclassman. He had held his position as a Power in Slytherin for over four years now—having snatched the Keeper position for the House team at the end of his first year and cementing his claim in his first game. This may not be Hogwarts, but the role still needed to be played. Accordingly, Marcus pulled Harry to a stop at the bottom of the Great Steps. With a small flourish of his wand hand, he gestured to the poem etched in the Jack above the outer doors.

 

“ _Enter, Stranger, but take heed_

_Of what awaits the sin of greed,_

_For those who take, but do not earn,_

_Must pay most dearly in their turn._

_So if you seek beneath our floors_

_A treasure that was never yours,_

_Thief, you have been warned, beware_

_Of finding more than treasure there._

 

“Do you feel it, Harry?” Marcus looked down at the boy, feeling the trembling beneath his hand. Harry was staring at the white marble building which towered over the surrounding buildings. The First Branch of Gringotts was the crown jewel of the Alleys, nestled at the junction of the three major thoroughfares. Not only were the wards on the ancient bank impressive, but the ambient magic of the Alleys pooled in this spot before the natural current of the space pushed it through the oddly shaped magical district.

 

“It’s so…” Harry turned away from the bank to look down Professon Alley. “People live here? You—you live here?”

 

“Yes,” Marcus confirmed, proud that Harry could tell that even without any formal training. He slid his hand to cup the nape of the boy’s neck and used the grip to pull him in for a sideways hug. Harry started at the absent-minded gesture before lightly leaning into it. Despite Hagrid watching from the top of the steps, Marcus was hesitant to end the embrace. The same instinct which had demanded he do _something_ was urging him to not push the tiny firstie away, as if even reminding Harry that they had things to do would be the same level of offense as kicking a crup. Absently, Marcus gently rubbed the ridge immediately behind Harry’s left ear. “We Flints have lived in Professon Alley for over six generations now. Our shop’s the third one on the left coming from this way. Even when me and Da aren’t there, there’s always someone from the family manning the shop.” Marcus tipped Harry’s face towards him, forcing those contradictory eyes to meet his. “Remember that, Harry. Day or night, holiday or not, and even on Sundays, there is _always_ someone there.”

 

“Always?” The tone in Harry’s voice made even Marcus’ stone heart hurt. It sounded like he wanted to believe in the word so badly but could not quite bring himself to do so, like he had been promised things so many times and had them snatched away at the moment he had needed them the most. The shimmer those rich green eyes had taken backed up that conclusion. Marcus gave a solemn nod in return, unable to do anything else between the blood rushing to his ears and Mother weeping in his head.

 

“Always,” Marcus promised. He didn’t need the tingling sparks of magic beneath his skin to know that it carried the weight of a vow and the strength of a _geas_. It didn’t matter if Mother had bound just him or his entire line to it. All that mattered was the tears the boy seemed incapable of shedding and the hefty knowledge of how a child could have learned such restraint. He offered the word to Harry once more, already knowing that it would be a common reassurance, but no matter the trinket nature to himself, Mother urged him to never hesitate to offer it. Mother clearly knew _better_ what Her children needed.

 

-= LP =-

_To Be Continued in Part 03_

-= LP =-


	3. Kindness Comes in Boxes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Child abuse and the potential grooming of a child are discussed in this chapter. It may be off-putting for some readers, but if you managed to make it through Dumbledore's POV in the first chapter, this is way less intense. Oh, and Hermione talking about both a Mom and a Mama is deliberate, not a mistake.

-= LP =-

Of Thieves & Beggars

Part 03: Kindness Comes in Boxes

-= LP =-

“You see but do not observe. The distinction is clear.” – Sherlock Holmes (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)

-= LP =-

 

Despite the ribbing that he received from his younger brothers (especially the twins), Percy Weasley saw no issue with being proud of the rank he had justly earned. Being named as Prefect was a sign of trust as much as it was an honor. Prefects did help enforce the rules of Hogwarts, but they also had the important task of helping their fellow students. That help could take any number of forms, and a prefect had to be prepared for anything. Only the best could handle that responsibility, and that is why employers looked at such things in their applicants. Only the best students were supposed to be given the rank. He was duly proud that he, Percival Ignatius Weasley, a middle son of a cadet branch of a minor House, had earned such a recognition.

 

It was only right that he treated the rank with an appropriate amount of respect. He had to set an example for the younger students, just as his older brothers had for him. He had to be open and approachable to even the youngest of them. Much of his first week was spent comforting the younger students, especially the first years, many of whom were away from home for the first time. Most of the girls went to Audrey Dunbar, the fifth year girl who made prefect, with the only exceptions being Audrey’s younger sister Faye (who was already showing signs of being a troublemaker along the lines of the twins) and Hermione Granger (a girl with a refreshing attitude towards academia but was a bit of a bossy swot). Years of dealing with the twins’ antics and reckless search for entertainment gave Percy a better understanding of how to handle Faye, and Hermione was so much like himself that he knew what advice she needed to hear and how. The first year boys were just as easy to sort out. The only exceptions were Ron (who was just as difficult to motivate to study here at Hogwarts as he had been at home) and Harry Potter (who even Percy could tell had been latched onto by Ron like a limpet). Neither boy had approached anybody—prefect, professor, portrait, or phantom—for help adjusting to life at Hogwarts, and the Headmaster had made it clear that no one was supposed to approach the Boy-Who-Lived first unless absolutely necessary.

 

It was more than a bit surprising to come down early the first Saturday of the term to see Harry Potter sequestered at one of the tables furthest from the fireplace, surrounded by stacks of thick books. Percy stood at the base of the stairs leading to the boys’ dorm watching as the tiniest first year worked his way through a book while cross-referencing with another tome. Taking care to be as quiet as possible, he crept closer. The twins would do things like this, the intense studying at an odd time, in order to avoid being caught planning one of their pranks. Harry hadn’t shown any sign of being that underhanded, and pranking would require more effort to pull off than Percy had seen Ron put into _anything_ so far outside of getting out of school work and chores, but why _else_ would a first year be studying an hour before dawn on a day he could be having a lie-in? It would be best to head off any shenanigans before they had a chance to grow out of hand.

 

“That’s not prank-related,” Percy said without thinking after he was behind the boy. The firstie flinched at the sudden sound and stayed hunched over his books as if expecting a blow. A shadowed bit of knowledge twisted in Percy’s stomach as his instincts screamed a single word repeatedly at him ( _wrongwrongwrongwrong_ ). Why would someone be punished for studying history and culture?

 

“Should it be?” Harry questioned. The words were hushed, not whispered so much as _sotto voce_ as if Harry feared being heard. Percy could feel the importance being given whatever answer he gave the boy and for the first time, it occurred to Percy _exactly_ how much trust his rank held because he could feel that whatever instruction he gave could (and _would_ ) bend the future to match. Is this why Dumbledore didn’t want people approaching him? Could he even know? Percy couldn’t let the child stew in the desperate tension which rolled off him in waves. He had to do something to help the boy, to help _Harry_.

 

“Not at all,” Percy stated as he slid into the chair beside Harry. Taking his cue from what Bill used to do years ago when he was helping Percy study, Percy put his hand on Harry’s back right between his shoulder blades. There was a shock of magic but the current quickly faded to little more than a warm glow. Making a show of looking over the book titles, Percy rubbed circles with the ball of his palm, silently working to soothe the desperation. “Living with the twins has just made me paranoid, I guess. This is pretty boring stuff for most firsties, though. From the titles, I take it you were raised by muggles?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

The answer was too quick and the honorific was unexpected. His instincts kept up their litany. Percy didn’t know what to do but he knew that he had to do _something_. Harry Potter was too important to their world, but also, no child should be capable of such profound fear, least of all because of the possibility of doing something wrong. Percy had already seen how people were always watching the boy, and Professor Snape seemed to be especially hard on the first year Gryffindors this year, uncharacteristically so despite his gruffness with all the underclassmen (and especially the non-Slytherin ones) previously. Maybe it was that stress which had the boy so eager to please. Who knows what Ron had been telling him about Percy? Percy was well aware what Ron thought of him, after all. But that could be dealt with at a later time, when whatever this situation was had been handled. Right now, Percy had a firstie who needed help with something, and that was what Percy was best at, even if his family life was a bit _strained_ right now.

 

“Have you read the books included in your package from the Orientation Center?”

 

“I never received a package from an Orientation Center,” Harry answered. Percy felt the tension beneath his hand. He gave a cascading series of taps with his fingers as he began to quickly plan what needed to be done now. Later, away from the first year, Percy would worry about how the situation had come to _this_ , but for right now, he did what he always did best: he dealt with the situation at hand.

 

“I’ll work to get you the books—“

 

“I can repay—“

 

“Shh,” Percy commanded. Harry snapped his mouth shut hard enough to make his teeth click. His eyes were wide and worried. Even with a well-established tan, the boy was pale with fear. Unable to stand the look anymore, Percy did what Charlie always did when any of the younger Weasley children were afraid—he dropped a kiss onto Harry’s forehead. The inky curls tickled his nose with the generic scent of the Gryffindor hand soap. Percy silently added to the growing list in his head. “None of that, now. It is something easily sorted now that the lack is known. We’ll get you kitted out. It’s just a matter of asking.”

 

“But asking is against _the Rules_!”

 

The words burst out of the tiny first year who immediately ducked his head while raising the shoulder closest to Percy. The litany turned to a scream of rage before choking off with a sorrowful sob. Resolutely, Percy ignored that subverbal mishmash of foreign emotions, no longer so certain that it had been instincts at all. His parents made no secret that the Old Ways weren’t _real_ and were just _tripe_ to justify the Blood War, but four years working _with_ Hogwarts would make anyone question the possible sentience of magic and the wisdom of trying to ignore Her/its demands. ‘ _Later,’_ he promised. He would think of it all _later_ , when he didn’t have an eleven-year-old on the verge of a panic attack and a bout of accidental magic. ‘ _One step at a time. Focus on the problem before you before borrowing trouble.’_

 

“Harry,” Percy started, not daring to even twitch as magic ruffled the pages of the open books and made the flames in the room flicker. He waited until the boy uncurled to peek at him through his eyelashes. In the back of his mind, Percy began to worry that Harry would need to be guarded against poaching, even as young as he currently was. Everyone in Britannia already knew the legend of the Boy-Who-Lived and the power he would bring to a line, but if the unscrupulous learned what Percy was beginning to understand, the boy would be lost forever, secreted away to be trained as a weapon or tool. A seed born of that thought and watered by Dumbledore’s edict swelled within him even as it hardened into a fully recognized fear. ‘ _Later. It can be explored later. Deal with what’s in front of you right now.’_ Slowly, the cloying taste of magic dissipated, and Percy felt confident enough to take back up the motion of his hand on Harry’s back. “Those Rules are not for here. If you want the Rules for _here_ , I will help you. The first Rule is to ask for help when you need it—or even when you think that it _may_ be needed. I promise you that I will do _everything I can_ to help you, and while I may not be able to solve every problem, I am good at weaseling out resources which will solve most issues.”

 

“I can—“

 

“The second Rule,” Percy continued as if Harry hadn’t been speaking, “is to never offer compensation for Gifts. It’s rude and can even be dangerously offensive if you try it with the wrong person or in the wrong situation. Gifts are important and when offered freely, should not be refused. If something is meant to be a transaction, they will always mention their Price. Have you been Gifted anything since you rejoined the wizarding world?”

 

Harry hesitantly nodded before raising his left arm. The loose sleeve of his overly large shirt dropped to the curve of his elbow, revealing a doubled strand of dark purple beads wrapped around his wrist. Percy used Harry’s hand to turn his arm in order to examine the bracelet fully. He frowned when he realized that the jewelry clearly had not been made with the child in mind, having been made for someone with much larger wrists. The smooth gloss of the amethyst spoke of the piece being as well-loved by its previous owner as it had been well-made. It had been a favored piece despite how expensive it must have been to purchase—and by the feel of the intricate magic emanating from it, the bracelet would have had to have been purchased, unless…

 

“Who?”

 

“Marcus Flint gave it to me,” Harry gave freely. He had a small, wistful twist to his lips and his eyes were focused on the bracelet. “He said it would help—and it has so much. Everything was so loud before, like screaming all the time, but once he put it on me, the screaming stopped, and now I can listen so much better, even if it doesn’t always make sense.” Harry turned his gaze from the bracelet back to Percy’s face, not bothering to hide the look beneath lashes. The color reminded the prefect of sunshine seen through the leaves of the willow by the Weasley pond and the innocence of the Halcyon days of childhood spent splashing beneath the hanging fronds. “Like how you’re upset again but it’s different than your anger from earlier—it’s…”

 

“Protective?” Percy offered after a momentary examination of himself. “That’s what family feels when they suspect impropriety towards their younger members. I _will_ be having a discussion with Mr. Flint later. For now, I ask that you have either myself or—“ Percy sped through the list of the Gryffindor upperclassmen in his head. “Ollie should work. Either myself or Oliver Wood with you if you visit him. I’ll let Ollie know to be looking out for you.”

 

“Wh-why?” Harry asked. Even the single syllable seemed to cost the boy. Percy knew that the question was for multiple things and that knowledge squeezed his heart. He was already becoming accustomed to the pressure that bore down on him whenever Harry asked a question and the nagging worry that one day he would break under it, and destroy any hope the world may have of— _something_ vaguely nebulous but _vital_ , just the same.

 

“One’s House is one’s Family,” Percy explained, knowing that the words held little meaning for the boy at the moment, but they still needed to be said. McGonagall would have mentioned that when she met the firsties before the Sorting, but Percy had never heard of her ever _explaining_ what that would mean. There would be time for Percy to explain this _later_ , but right now, Harry needed to understand that there were certain things that just _were_. Percy dropped another kiss on the boy’s forehead, thinking of Charlie right before he disappeared into the dead of night to chase his dragons all the way to another country and escaping their parents’ plans ( _his mother’s demands_ ) at the same time. ‘ _Later,’_ he promised again as he pushed the thought away again. ‘ _Deal with what’s in front of you before borrowing trouble.’_ “ _Audentia est misericordia_ , that’s the Gryffindor motto and every single one of us should strive to live up to it by taking care of our own.”

 

“Is that a Rule?” Harry whispered, but it pleased Percy that already the questions seemed to be flowing easier. Percy shook his head in answer.

 

“Just a strong suggestion,” he corrected before glancing out the window to note the brightening sky. “Now, let’s get these books cleared up before we head down to breakfast. Then we’ll come back and I’ll see if I can explain some of this to you.”

 

“But—“ Harry cut himself off with another click of teeth. Percy raised an eyebrow at him, making him swallow audibly before daring to continue. “Ron doesn’t like studying and he doesn’t like when—“ Harry’s teeth gave another click. Percy added a visit to Madam Pomfrey to his mental list of what Harry needed, if only to check that his teeth were not likely to crack. Percy also didn’t like how obvious the boy’s bones were both visually and under his hands.

 

“Do you normally come down early?” Percy asked, politely ignoring ( _for now_ ) the disturbing implications of both his brother’s possessiveness and Harry’s worrisome submission to its demands. ‘ _Deal with what’s in front of you before borrowing trouble. There will be time later._ ’ At Harry’s nod, Percy began laying out his plan to meet Harry in the mornings to assist the boy with his education. Someone wanted the boy to be ignorant of the wizarding world and while Percy couldn’t be sure, everything within him demanded that not be allowed. Percy had been proud of his appointment to prefect, knowing that it was a trust as much as an honor. It was only a week into his term, however, and he was already certain that should that duty ever demand that he betray the boy beside him, he would give it up in a heartbeat and spit in the face of whoever was forcing his hand.

 

Later that day, when Marcus Flint shoved a plain wooden box into his hands, Percy decided that some discussions didn’t need to involve words. The wrapped and sealed package from the Mundane Orientation Center really wasn’t the surprise—the Flints had lived in the Alleys for far longer than the Center had been the crown jewel of Antagon Alley. The collection of hygiene products was surprising, even though Percy had already been planning to pick some up at the apothecary in Hogsmeade the first weekend of the year. He would need to watch the Slytherin captain closely, if only to determine what he wanted with the littlest Gryffindor. Was Flint an ally in the effort to protect Harry? Was he one of those who would seek to take advantage of the child? Percy was only confident that Flint didn’t seek to destroy any aspect of Harry, which given how much aptitude the boy was showing for all of his subjects, was less of an issue than if any other first year, even the bossy swot that remind Percy of himself, had been targeted. Slytherins were known for playing the long game and that was not Percy’s skill set. Not that he would ever give up trying to protect the boy from everything he could.

 

Percy had a responsibility after all, and no number of fancy boxes would change that.

 

-= LP =-

 

Hermione had not had many friends before coming to Hogwarts. To be completely honest, she hadn’t had _any_ before she had come to Hogwarts. The only children around her age who had been willing to play with her were her cousins. The kids she went to school with only wanted to “study” with her, which typically amounted to her either tutoring them or practically doing their homework. According to her Mama, it was just a fundamental difference in how people approached the world and not a failure on anyone’s part, but too many times Hermione had been faced with the knowledge that when it came to friends, she knew very little on the subject.

 

It still seemed that she may know more on the subject than Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. After meeting the boy on the train, she had taken up watching him. First impressions were important according to Daddy and Harry did not give the first impression of a boy who spent years secreted away training with Archmagi and warlocks from around the world. He had seemed honestly surprised that he was in history books and overly awe-struck about magic, almost as if he had not been raised around it just as she hadn’t been. Harry was also much skinnier than all of the other first years and his clothes were much too large on him, even if they were in good repair. Harry Potter was a puzzle. Hermione _loved_ puzzles.

 

As the weeks passed, Hermione got more pieces from her Harry Watching. Harry didn’t like loud noises. If the loud noise was angry or upset, he would even flinch away from the source. At the same time, he was fiercely protective of people—and their belongings. In their second week of school, Harry had risked being expelled to save Neville’s Remembrall from Malfoy and he would help students look for lost belongings whenever Ron would let him. Ron Weasley was very possessive of Harry’s time and the two were rarely seen without each other. Even the other guys in the first year dorm couldn’t seem to penetrate Ron’s grumpily persistent companionship enough to get close to Harry. He seemed even more resistant to Hermione’s attempts and even Harry seemed uncomfortably suspicious about her hovering, but if there was anything that she had learned from Mum, it was that even the toughest shells eventually melted under the warmth of concern. While Hermione may not understand much about friends, she did understand that Harry needed a type of help that Ron did not seem to be providing. After Harry joined the Quidditch team, it seemed to get better, but Hermione still saw Harry wistfully watching the small groups and cliques when he thought no one was looking (i.e. when _Ron_ wasn’t).

 

Harry was never the first person to speak and when he did talk, it was as little as possible. Most of the time, if he was volunteering to talk, it was in defense of others. He never suggested activities or refused to do anything that someone asked him to do, even if he seemed reluctant to do it. He learned the material for their classes very quickly and was really good in the practical aspects of all the subjects, even Potions where the professor seemed to hate him, but Hermione hardly ever saw him studying or working on homework. Only part of that could be attributed to how much Ron Weasley complained about doing that kind of thing. Yet Harry always had something to turn in without having to rush at the last minute like Ron. Hermione had always had a good gauge of dimensions, so it was not long before she noticed a pattern in the length of Harry’s assignments. They were _always_ an inch short of the required length. From what she could tell without actually reading the assignments, his handwriting was consistently the same size, if overly scratchy, and completely free of blots and smudges. In all other ways, his assignments seemed to be perfect. They were just a smidge short every time.

 

Harry also stole things when he thought no one was looking. It was never anything major—a quill or scrap of parchment here or there—but what really worried her was his tendency of stealing _food_. He would take something that wouldn’t spoil easily like bread or whole fruit and hide it in his bag. He did it _every meal_. Harry also had a habit of eating his meals in a way which reminded Hermione of her old dog Sparky. The Grangers had adopted the dog as a rescued animal. His previous owner had been very mean about food—not just withholding it completely, but also giving a portion only to snatch it away. Harry ate his meals in the same fugitive and rushed manner that Sparky had up until he had passed away. Hermione didn’t like what that could mean with Harry being so much smaller than everyone.

 

It was Halloween when things finally came to a head. Ron Weasley was his normal prattish self, mouthing off about things he never truly understood. Those words hurt, but what hurt more was the conflicted expression on Harry’s face. Her weeks of watching him made her understand that he wanted to speak up in her defense, but since it was Ron, he wouldn’t. Everything she had seen hit her all at once and Hermione couldn’t stand it anymore. She rushed past the pair and to the nearest lavatory.

 

When Harry had rescued her, Hermione had returned the favor. With her simple lie, she had ended his conflict and bought her way past Ron’s guard. Within days, she had confirmation of many of her suspicions, not that she wanted them by that point. She took up the slack on certain things, like nagging Ron to do his homework or distracting the redhead when Harry needed to slip away for a bit. She would also speak up about bullying she saw, confident in a way she hadn’t been before that she wasn’t going to be alone in doing so; Harry always followed, grateful for not needing to speak first.

 

As December wrapped Northern Scotland in a blanket of white, Hermione pondered Harry’s eating habits. Magic could only do so much; there _were_ limits, no matter how fantastically powerful magic seemed at times. Perhaps there wasn’t anything that would make Harry comfortable with eating with others; even time hadn’t made Sparky stop devouring his food like someone was going to take it. Food was important, and everyone should have enough. But Harry was going to attract pests if he wasn’t careful…

 

The idea was perfect, even if it ended up being a bit pricier than her parents had wanted her to spend on a new friend. Mama had gone with her to buy it, and haggled as only she could, getting the man down to half the price he had originally suggested in the matter of a few minutes. Mum had been surprised when they returned home with a plain wooden box with a sliding panel, expecting something more elaborate for having been charmed so heavily. Daddy had grumbled about how she was too young for boy chasing, earning a swat from Mum’s dish towel as she passed him to more closely examine the gift.

 

The Preservation Box was worth every penny and knut, she thought as she watched Harry’s expression shift as she explained what it did. She had sent something else as a Christmas gift, because she had wanted to give this gift in person. It needed to be explained and Harry needed to be reassured. She grabbed him as he began to sway, pulling him close on the cushy couch facing the fireplace in the abandoned common room. As the pair cuddled together for warmth and comfort, she amended her previous thought.

 

_Harry_ was worth _anything_.

 

-= LP =-

_To Be Continued in Part 04_

-= LP =-


	4. Keeper of Alms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): Chapter includes allusions to the potentiality of an older teen taking sexual advantage of a younger child. No such thing actually occurs and is not going to occur. There is also a reference to past violence towards a child done by said child’s parent, which did actually happen. As usual, please exercise understanding of personal sensitivities before or while reading.  
> Author's Note: To avoid bulky multiple gendered terms inherent in the HPverse, I am using various gender neutral terms as necessary and appropriate. One of these is “wix” (singular; replacing witch/wizard) and “wixen” (plural; ibid). I have also used “magus” (singular; general magic user, irrelevant of access method) and “magi” (plural; ibid). Neither of those relate to another term which may come up, which is _magum_. That original term refers to a specific group of people similar to the _ton_ (which anyone who reads period romances will recognize as the lofty noble-esque group that’s usually the focus of the genre). More will be explained in-story as it becomes relevant, but going in, all you need to keep in mind is that the _magum_ are set apart from other magi due many factors, primarily power and training, and that they are believed to be tasked by Magic to protect magic and all beings connected with it. Many of the _magum_ families are descended from various magic-borns. Due to these factors, they are granted a certain amount of respect and leeway.

-= LP =-  
Of Thieves & Beggars  
Part 04: Keepers of Alms  
-= LP =-  
“Gold and silver are not the only coin. Virtue too passes current all over the world.” – Euripides _  
_ -= LP =-

 

Severus had been prepared to hate the boy. The boy represented so much of Severus’ lost hopes that it should have been easy. It was this boy who had drawn the Dark Lord’s attention to Lily’s doorstep, who bore the face of his tormentor from school, who somehow still had traces of Sirius’ magic on him despite the man’s utter betrayal of any vow of protection or guidance. Yet it wasn’t easy to hate the child who shivered at loud noises and looked so much smaller than his yearmates, who watched his environment as if expecting an attack at any moment. Severus settled in to watch the boy in return, determined to make nothing but an informed decision on the boy’s personality, regardless of Dumbledore’s tales of guardian indulgence and precocious rambunctiousness and the role which Severus was expected to play in response to those tales.

 

By the time the first year Gryffindors and Slytherins had their first Potions class, Severus had thought himself prepared for the boy. The professors who had had the boy had all shared how blandly _normal_ Harry Potter was despite his hero status. They were quick to point out that all first years started on a similar level and Potter really wasn’t all that different in that regard, but Severus had spent much of his life reading what people said without words. They had expected more than a normal first year and were now disappointed that their little savior was just like any other child. It would have disappointed him as well, if for different reasons. Lily had been _exceptional_ and should her child be less than that, it would have been disgraceful to her memory and mostly likely because of Potter’s _inferior_ genetics.

 

The child who entered his classroom that day was not an ordinary child. He was so far from an ordinary child, that Severus could not fathom how the other professors had missed it all week. The boy’s pretense of ignorance was not exceptionally done despite its ability to fool the other professors. _Someone_ had conditioned the child against demonstrating his knowledge, a lesson from which the swotty Gryffindor would benefit. Yet for each question he had flung at the boy there had been a flash of recognition that told Severus that the boy knew or _thought_ he knew the answer.

 

Never once did the boy waver from his declaration of ignorance, and never once did he bite back, as Lily would have eventually. There had been a moment when Severus had seen a spark of defiance in the boy’s eyes. He had not realized the desperation growing within himself until the death of hope that followed watching the boy visibly bite back a no-doubt cheeky comment as he dropped his gaze submissively. Reigning in his temper took more effort than it should have, given his mastery of Occlumency.

 

The final straw was seeing the boy _almost_ correcting the Finnegan and Longbottom pair before they destroyed their cauldron. Potions was too dangerous to allow hesitancy to continue in anyone, and that hesitancy in _Lily’s son_ was repugnant beyond belief. For once the persona he had built at Dumbledore’s insistence would be useful. No one questioned when Severus had blamed the brat of deliberately letting Finnegan ruin their potion. When the boy’s shoulders hunched instead of straightening defiantly, Severus knew he had his work cut out for him if he wanted to foster the bit of Lily’s brilliance that hid in the brat, especially given Dumbledore’s stance on the matter.

 

Someone may want the boy to appear stupid, but by the Mother, Severus would not let him list into _actual_ stupidity. He had a debt to repay, after all—even with Albus’ restrictions. He had successfully hidden extra lessons for Andromeda’s brat. He could do the same for Lily’s spawn.

 

-= LP =-

 

Oliver Wood and Marcus Flint had always had a rather tense relationship with each other. It went back further than Hogwarts. There had been five of them together under the same tutor, just the five of them. Basileus Shacklebolt taught prodigies and those with gifts for _obscured_ magics. Not a lot of those to go around, was there? So there had just been the five of them: Aethra Seaward, Niall Abbott, Prabodh Patel, Marcus Flint, and him. Basileus had always been selective but in the wake of Voldemort’s fall and the laws that were passed, he had become even more so. Doing otherwise would be to risk Azkaban. As the only students who would be in the same year, Oliver and Marcus had settled into an intense rivalry which hadn’t faded when they left their tutor for the halls of Hogwarts.

 

Both had joined their House teams at the first opportunity and it was just another arena to compete within. Then they both were made captain at the same time and everything was taken up a notch. Truthfully, quidditch matches between Slytherin and Gryffindor were dirty and furious because of them more than because of House rivalry. They knew each other’s weaknesses just as well as they knew their strengths. Outside of the field, they had no reason to interact at Hogwarts, even if they remained allied through their continued apprenticeship with Basileus.

 

Then Harry Potter came to Hogwarts and everything changed.

 

“You’re joking, right? This is _Marcus Flint_ you’re talking about, Percy. The books, sure, yeah—those don’t cost anything.” Oliver made a sweeping motion to stop Percy from saying whatever he had opened his mouth to say. Percy’s nose did that scrunchy thing that he definitely did _not_ find adorable, but Percy let him continue without interruption. “But that other stuff? Flints don’t give things away for nothing. _Every knut until it bleeds_ is, uh, a family motto or something.”

 

“Hence my request,” Percy reminded. He adjusted his glasses with a single finger. Oliver definitely did _not_ find the imperious expression just as cute as the scrunched-nose annoyance one. That was definitely _not_ a thing he felt. “It is not that I do not trust my own spellwork, you know. I am merely aware that there is no harm in double-checking and I trust your spellwork.”

 

“You found something, didn’t you?” Oliver let his suspicion color his tone to mask the thrill he felt at the admission of trust. Suspicion was better than letting Percy know what _that_ meant to him.

 

“I did,” Percy confirmed. Oliver examined his friend, from ginger top to sock-covered bottom. That’s a familiar shade of cyan. _Oh_. Those were the socks _he_ had been looking for the other day. Why was Percy wearing his socks? That was—that was good, actually. He liked that, like, a lot. Percy cleared his throat. Oliver snapped his attention back to Percy’s face. “ _Focus_ , Ollie. I need you to verify my results before I give the products to Harry.”

 

“Uh, sure, I can do that,” Oliver agreed, pushing aside any thought of sock-stealing for later perusal. Percy probably didn’t mean anything by it. It was just socks, anyway. Nothing important. Just something that was _his_ being worn by the boy he definitely did _not_ think of as anything except a _friend_. What was it that Percy wanted? Right. Check for potions. Like Marcus would do something so underhanded and dishonorable as poach a firstie, using potions like an idiot. His mother held a Mastery of Potions. He would have known better before he could walk. He cast the most general detection spell, confident of what result he would get. “Huh. What do you know?”

 

All of the bottles and containers were glowing to indicate that they had potion components. Like those moments in the middle of a game when a play had to be tweaked, Oliver’s mind was already running through possibilities. His wand twisted and jabbed as he cast the finer tuned spells to detect. He frowned and started another series. Then he cast another when his results only confused him further. Oliver glanced at Percy’s stoic face before summoning a roll of parchment. A flick of a spell had the transcription of his findings started.

 

“I want to know what is going on, Perce,” Oliver whispered. Marcus knew potions too well for the combination to be accidental and dosing someone without their consent? Atropa would murder him, son or not, and Basileus would be _worse_. Everyone knew that giving someone potions without their knowledge was _dangerous_. The chances of interactions—with other potions, with food, with the person’s _magic_ —were simply too great. A Potions Master could probably risk it, if they knew the person well, but any healer or medi-wix wouldn’t dare. And frankly, these weren’t the type of potions that should _need_ to be sneaked into someone. Who even thought of putting a nutritional potion in body lotion anyway? Or Bone-Strengthener in toothpaste? What possible reason would there even be?

 

With a matching whisper, Percy explained about finding Harry studying earlier. Oliver knew that Percy had problems with his family, mostly his mother’s doing, but listening to how Percy describe what he had deduced about the kid’s home life—well, Molly Weasley’s controlling nature had nothing on what Harry’s relatives must be like. Really, the Boy-Who-Lived angle just made it all even worse. It made potential solutions trickier than it would be otherwise.

 

Hearing that Marcus gave Harry the bracelet that had not left his wrist since Basileus had given it to him when he had started their tutelage made something within Oliver turn to ice. Percy probably didn’t know more than it was an expensive gift, but the gesture meant a lot more than the prefect suspected. Or maybe just more than Percy knew for certain, given how he was measuring Oliver’s reaction to that portion of the tale before requesting Oliver be willing to act as a chaperone for the kid.

 

Oliver freely agreed to keep an eye on the famous firstie and to escort him if he wanted to meet with Marcus. He didn’t tell Percy that he would be there if _anyone_ tried to get the kid alone, not just Marcus. Blood feuds had been started over less than failure to protect a sworn ally’s intended, and until he had a chance to have an open discussion with Marcus during the term break, Oliver had to assume that the bracelet meant _exactly_ what tradition implied it did, despite _knowing_ Marcus would never deliberately harm a child.

 

He had to trust that Marcus was not doing anything that he couldn’t justify under an aegis promise once discovered—since Oliver would turn him over to Basileus without hesitation if the saturnine Slytherin turned out to be doing anything else and if Marcus was _lucky_ , Basileus would kill him before informing the Flint Clan of the violation.

 

Four days later, Oliver faced something scarier than the possibility of Basileus discovering that he abetted Marcus’ little potions scheme. McGonagall pulled him out of Charms to announce that she had found him a _seeker_. She was right, of course, about Harry’s build and his skills— _raw talent_ , really and truly—were everything that she claimed. His quidditch-obsessed heart leapt for joy at the prospect of having the kid on the team. Harry caught every snitch-sized stand-in Oliver threw for him, magical or mundane, and flew like he was a goddamn hawk or something. Percy hadn’t been joking when he said the kid was a sponge for information either; Harry clearly had no problem with doing independent research because Oliver had spotted him with various strategy guides within short order (many far and away better than the _Quidditch through the Ages_ he chose for reading in public).

 

Harry wasn’t the issue.

 

Oh, no, _that_ was telling Percy and Marcus about Harry’s appointment to the team…as _seeker_ , the position most likely to get clobbered in any given game.

 

Percy had been quiet for Oliver’s entire stuttering spiel, growing even more still as Oliver outlined the situation. Oliver had definitely not been mentally writing his Will when Percy had drawn his wand, because that thing people said about a redhead’s temper was totally _not true_. Thank _fuck_ that shield charms protect against flying glass shards, but really he had always hated that vase anyway so its destruction by the most tightly controlled _bombardia_ he had ever seen was totally not an issue.

 

Oliver definitely did _not_ like that more than the socks—because that would be weird. Would that be weird? It was probably weird. Not that it _mattered_ because Oliver definitely didn’t think about Percy wearing _his_ socks—something of _his_ and that _he_ had worn. Whatever, right? It definitely didn’t get stuck in his mind at the worst ( _best_ ) times—because, again, that would be _weird_ , which he wasn’t. They weren’t. Percy had _plans_. No amount of sock-stealing or vase annihilation would change that.

 

“Do you remember Aethra?” Marcus had asked with a face like the stone of his name after Oliver had told him.

 

Oliver _did_.

 

As if he could forget that nightmare of a situation in less than three years. Would it have been better if she had been taken by some kind of dark creature or—curse it, a Death Eater? It wouldn’t leave the taste of sickness and wrongness in his mouth, maybe. Probably. Who the hell does that kind of sick stuff to their own daughter anyway? Basileus had been pissed, that’s for sure. Paid back every ounce of pain tenfold, at least.

 

Oliver didn’t know exactly what was being promised by that reminder, but he understood the message. Like he would do anything other than protect the kid—but yeah, Marcus leaving it at that and then _leaving_? That was, like, _awesome_ because rivalry or not, the guy had gotten scarily intense over the years.

 

It was kind of nice seeing him so protective over someone not already bound to him by blood or oaths.

 

Of course, Oliver could do the arithmancy of the small gifts, but having been present for most of Harry’s lessons with Percy now, he also knew that so far _nothing_ aside from how the bracelet was given couldn’t be explained outside an aegis promise. They couldn’t really risk asking for details because Harry tended to do that freezing thing like he was bracing for a blow whenever someone mentioned a gift he received. Yeah, so, it wasn’t like the kid already had them wrapped around his ( _too bony_ ) fingers or anything. It was just that—well, fuck it. The kid needed help and Oliver was willing to accept Harry keeping any secret that didn’t seem to hurt him any more than what he had already suffered. If that meant holding his tongue on a potential courtship that may or may not be on purpose, then that was what he would do.

 

Oliver spent weeks after the first match of the year jumping at noises. He knew that Percy wasn’t really _that_ upset but the thought of that tiny Exploding hex still lingered ( _there hadn’t even been shards, just dust_ ). Marcus most likely wasn’t going to do anything either ( _“do you remember Aethra?”_ ) because that would bring Basileus down on both of them ( _what was left_ ). It was that first year swot that had started hanging out with Harry after the Halloween debacle. He had heard a ( _insane and probably false_ ) rumor that she had set Snape on fire because she _thought_ that he was behind the broom problems.

 

Oliver wasn’t afraid of a firstie—no, that would be pathetic, and he _wasn’t_. It was just…

 

Hermione Granger was a lot like Percy and Percy was…brilliant, and scary, and scarily brilliant. The girl had none of Percy’s tight hesitancy over voicing her opinions—probably used to speaking up about them even when they weren’t aligned with those around her because she had parents who didn’t suck. She didn’t talk about her home life, but Hermione clearly didn’t have Percy’s compartmentalization thing where he shoved everything away to deal with only what needed to be dealt with immediately. She also watched everything, just like Marcus, and _then_ made plans accordingly, but it never felt invasive like Marcus’ plotting sometimes did. Hermione kept people on task, nagging and gently reminding as needed by the individual. Oliver was fairly certain that she had already started memorizing the Hogwarts Code of Conduct _and_ the League’s Rulebook. If she didn’t make prefect when her fifth year came, Oliver would be shocked.

 

She would be a good ally to have.

 

…if she didn’t set _him_ on fire for not stopping the match when it became obvious that Harry had been in danger.

 

Oliver relaxed when the fall term had finally ended, quietly surprised by the lack of bloodshed. Sure, Marcus was likely to take advantage of any opportunity given by their sparring over the holiday, but Basileus wouldn’t let anything happen on his watch and Oliver wasn’t ignorant of the blackmail potential he had with his knowledge of Marcus’ actions towards the Last Potter. Percy was staying at Hogwarts to watch his brothers and any other Gryffindors left, especially after Harry had put his name down for staying. (Oliver probably shouldn’t have felt as happy as he did about the kid being stuck at Hogwarts over the holiday, but at least Harry was not being forced back home during breaks.)

 

Hermione barely acknowledged him watching at King’s Cross as she greeted a woman who looked like she could have taken down an entire army with a single look and moved a lot like the master duelists he had met over the years. Oliver wasn’t stupid enough to think the woman wasn’t capable of considerable damage even if she wasn’t magical. No wonder the girl had ended up in Gryffindor if she had such a warrior as a parent.

 

Oliver’s relief died the moment he stepped through the floo and spotted Basileus waiting in his parents’ reception room. His certainty of impending doom was resurrected when the floo admitted Marcus followed by Atropa moments later. Both adults had entirely blank expressions on their faces. Marcus’ face was blank as well, but his chin was raised in clear defiance of whatever Atropa had given as the reason for this visit.

 

Oliver could make a few guesses about the topic.

 

None of this boded well.

 

“Please explain why two of my best students have disgraced my tutelage by beginning and aiding a dishonorable courtship?”

 

Basileus sounded every bit as furious as Oliver had known he would be. Oliver had no idea how Niall had known even that much detail, but he would put money on the Hufflepuff as Basileus’ source of information, which could mean anything for how the information was presented. The third year had a tendency to dramatize things without realizing it. Marcus opened his mouth only to be silenced by his mother’s addition to Basileus’ order.

 

“And include an explanation about why either of you believed giving _anyone_ potions without their knowledge was permissible,” Atropa said with all the soft warmth of a glacier.

 

Oliver hoped McGonagall made Angelina captain when he failed to return to Hogwarts due to his unexpected (and quite possibly messy) demise. Alicia would make a good alternative, but Katie had a tendency to distract her in unexpected ways. Honestly, the brunette was worse at being serious than the Terror Twins. Admittedly, the twins had decent heads on their shoulders but trying to assign only one of them a role was an exercise in futility. They were scarily in sync, to the point that Oliver had unsubstantiated doubts about their ability to function individually. Harry was too green for consideration.

 

Also, Angelina would probably dedicate their matches to his memory, which would be a nice memorial.

 

He was really glad he had never reclaimed those socks from Percy.

 

-= LP =-  
_To Be Continued in Part 05  
_ -= LP =-


End file.
